Successful Recitations Part 53

BY SIR F.H. DOYLE.

[Told to the author by the late Sir Charles James Napier.]

Eleven men of England A breast-work charged in vain; Eleven men of England Lie stripped, and gashed, and slain.

Slain; but of foes that guarded Their rock-built fortress well, Some twenty had been mastered, When the last soldier fell.

Whilst Napier piloted his wondrous way Across the sand-waves of the desert sea, Then flashed at once, on each fierce clan, dismay, Lord of their wild Truckee.

These missed the glen to which their steps were bent, Mistook a mandate, from afar half heard, And, in that glorious error, calmly went To death without a word.

The robber chief mused deeply, Above those daring dead, "Bring here," at length he shouted, "Bring quick, the battle thread.

Let Eblis blast for ever Their souls, if Allah will: But we must keep unbroken The old rules of the Hill.

"Before the Ghiznee tiger Leapt forth to burn and slay; Before the holy Prophet Taught our grim tribes to pray; Before Secunder's lances Pierced through each Indian glen; The mountain laws of honour Were framed for fearless men.

"Still when a chief dies bravely, We bind with green one wrist-- Green for the brave, for heroes One crimson thread we twist.

Say ye, oh gallant Hillmen, For these, whose life has fled, Which is the fitting colour, The green one, or the red?"

"Our brethren, laid in honoured graves, may wear Their green reward," each n.o.ble savage said; "To these, whom hawks and hungry wolves shall tear, Who dares deny the red?"

Thus conquering hate, and steadfast to the right, Fresh from the heart that haughty verdict came; Beneath a waning moon, each spectral height Rolled back its loud acclaim.

Once more the chief gazed keenly Down on those daring dead; From his good sword their heart's blood Crept to that crimson thread.

Once more he cried, "The judgment, Good friends, is wise and true, But though the red be given, Have we not more to do?

"These were not stirred by anger, Nor yet by l.u.s.t made bold; Renown they thought above them, Nor did they look for gold.

To them their leader's signal Was as the voice of G.o.d: Unmoved, and uncomplaining, The path it showed they trod.

"As, without sound or struggle, The stars unhurrying march, Where Allah's finger guides them, Through yonder purple arch.

These Franks, sublimely silent, Without a quickened breath, Went, in the strength of duty, Straight to their goal of death.

"If I were now to ask you To name our bravest man, Ye all at once would answer, They called him Mehrab Khan.

He sleeps among his fathers, Dear to our native land, With the bright mark he bled for Firm round his faithful hand.

"The songs they sing of Roostrum Fill all the past with light; If truth be in their music, He was a n.o.ble knight.

But were those heroes living, And strong for battle still, Would Mehrab Khan or Roostrum Have climbed, like these, the Hill?"

And they replied, "Though Mehrab Khan was brave As chief, he chose himself what risks to run; Prince Roostrum lied, his forfeit life to save, Which these had never done."

"Enough!" he shouted fiercely; "Doomed though they be to h.e.l.l, Bind fast the crimson trophy Round _both_ wrists--bind it well.

Who knows but that great Allah May grudge such matchless men, With none so decked in heaven, To the fiends' flaming den?"

Then all those gallant robbers Shouted a stern "Amen!".

They raised the slaughtered sergeant, They raised his mangled ten.

And when we found their bodies Left bleaching in the wind, Around _both_ wrists in glory That crimson thread was twined.

Then Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core, Rung like an echo to that knightly deed; He bade its memory live for evermore, That those who run may read.

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.

BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

["Some Sikhs and a private of the Buffs having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform the _Kotow_. The Sikhs obeyed, but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill."--_Times_.]

_Last night_ among his fellow roughs, He jested, quaffed, and swore; A drunken private of the Buffs Who never looked before.

_To-day_ beneath the foeman's frown He stands in Elgin's place Amba.s.sador from Britain's crown, And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewildered, and alone, A heart with English instinct fraught, He yet can call his own.

Ay, tear his body limb from limb, Bring cord or axe or flame; He only knows that not through him Shall England come to shame.

For Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd Like dreams, to come and go; Bright leagues of cherry blossom gleam'd One sheet of living snow; The smoke above his father's door, In grey, soft eddyings hung: Must he then watch it rise no more Doom'd by himself, so young?

Yes, honour calls!--with strength like steel He put the vision by.

Let dusky Indians whine and kneel; An English lad must die.

And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed; Vain, those all-shattering guns; Unless proud England keep, untamed, The strong heart of her sons.

So, let his name through Europe ring-- A man of mean estate, Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, Because his soul was great.

A FISHERMAN'S SONG.

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

Hurrah! the craft is das.h.i.+ng Athwart the briny sea; Hurrah! the wind is las.h.i.+ng The white sails merrily; The sun is s.h.i.+ning overhead, The rough sea heaves below; We sail with every canvas spread, Yo ho! my lads, yo ho!

Simple is our vocation, We seek no hostile strife; But 'mid the storm's vexation We succour human life; O, simple are our pleasures, We crave no miser's h.o.a.rd, But haul the great sea's treasures To spread a frugal board.

But if at usurpation We needs must strike a blow, Our hardy avocation Shall fit us for the foe; Then let the despot's strength compete Upon the open sea, And on the proudest of his fleet Our flag shall flutter free.

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

BY LORD BYRON.

Stop!--for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!

An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!

Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?